I Raped Myself

He said it, so it must be true.

Everything he said was true.  Nobody else liked me.  Nobody else could love me.  Nobody else saw me as worthy.

“Do what I tell you, or else.”

The or else was a scary thought, so I did what I was told.

He paid for my lunch.  He drove me around.  He did me favors.  So, I owed him.

He never let me forget it, either.  I tried to leave.  I tried to get out of his mandated obligations.  I tried to just disappear, and hope he would forget me.

Sometimes, I thought it was working.  I could walk by him, and he wouldn’t acknowledge me.  He wouldn’t even give me that look of disgust.

Did that make me free?

I wasn’t sure.  Before I had a chance to understand true freedom, he was back.  He apologized his way back into power.  He disguised his dictatorship as democracy.

I bought my own lunch one day.  I realized how little I paid for it when I used money.

I asked for help.  More like, a definition.  I was told that I deserved my situation.  I was told there was no definition.  I was given the “get up and move on” speech.

Did everybody agree that I was worthless?

Or, did my own belief in my worthlessness give others the right to treat me that way?

When he said I owed him, I paid.  The payment felt exactly like or else.

He doesn’t deserve my favors.

I buy my own lunch now.

 

~Post from 2014.  In response to a prompt.

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Dear Writers,

Blogs are outdated.

I know!  What idiocy; to begin my first article on my new blog with such a statement.

However, if my proclamation is, indeed, true, nobody shall have the opportunity to point it out.

Now, should it ring false, the following paragraphs will be held irrelevant.

And yet, the writer writes.

What I have learned in previous failed blogs and rejected freelance submissions, is that a successful writer is simply one who writes.  Financial gain is not the defining standard of success.  Many artists were long-dead before their work attracted any monetary attention.

Lose-lose situations is what drives the creativity of a writer.  The starving artist draws passion from a hunger for beauty.  The author gleans inspiration from the drama surrounding loss.

We live in a constant state of conflict.  The threat of losing something -anything- cultivates the desire to build upon the impending emptiness.  It’s what fulfills us.

Failure and rejection simply indicate an imperfect work.  For a writer- trivial.  Fixable.  We write on.

The only true failure a writer faces is to put down the pen.  Lift your fingers from the keys.  Walk away from the stories, and be content with the normalcies of life.